


Display

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221bMerrick, Exhibitionism, M/M, Possessive John, Possessive Sex, Possessive Sherlock, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-His Last Vow, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new client has been flirting with Sherlock and, finding no joy there, with John. John seems annoyed to be second-best, Sherlock thinks, so Sherlock decides to give the departing woman (and maybe also John) a demonstration of who, exactly, John belongs to. But there's more than one level of sexual jealousy and more than one display of possession going on here, outlined in the window of 221b Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Display

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> Look! Hamstermoon [has created a beautiful cover for the new series!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3254090)

After the latest potential client left the flat, Sherlock leaned on the door jamb by the sitting room and watched John, who was watching her leave.

_John did not like her flirting with me._

Sherlock smirked a little as he raked John with a sharp, assessing gaze.

_And when she abandoned her fruitless flirtation with me and turned her charms on you, you were even less impressed. You have a healthy self regard about your attractiveness to women. Regardless of your availability, you were displeased to be her second choice._

Sherlock strode up to John, slotting himself behind him, chest flush against John's back. John grunted a terse greeting but didn't lean back into the embrace. He was still watching the woman, who stood on the street, texting someone.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in her posture; the speed of her texting; the sudden laugh in response to a reply; the way her gaze flicked up to their floor of the building. He was quite sure that she could see them standing at the window.

He bent his head to kiss John's neck and slid his arms around John's waist. He smoothed his hands over John's diaphragm and stomach. Dipped his fingers under the waistband of his jeans.

John leaned back against him now, though his eyes were still on the woman who, after another furtive look at their window, put the phone in her pocket and walked a few steps away.

Sherlock's right hand pushed into John's pants and cupped John's cock, still soft... _Oh, but responding. Interesting._ John was not by nature an exhibitionist. He usually left those antics to Sherlock.

The woman paused and took out her phone again. Another quick flick of a gaze at their window. It wasn't clear whether John had noticed the direction of her glance.

Sherlock kissed John’s neck again. Bit it softly. Curled his fingers around John's stirring cock.

"Not with the lights on," said John.

"Turn them off, then."

John twisted from the waist, not attempting to dislodge Sherlock's hand, and picked up a squash ball from the desk (a remnant of their previous case) and tested the weight of it in his hand. Then he turned further – Sherlock's hand slid over to John’s hip briefly – and threw the ball at the light switch by the door.

The light went out as the ball ricocheted from the switch to somewhere by the fireplace. John returned to the more comfortable position facing the window, Sherlock plastered over his back, one hand across John's stomach and the other re-establishng contact with his swelling erection.

After a moment that was filled with a soft moaning sigh, John told Sherlock: "Take your shirt off."

The woman, Sherlock noticed, had stopped texting and put the phone away, though she was looking at their window more obviously now.

Sherlock kissed John's shoulder; the side of his neck. John dropped his head forward and Sherlock kissed the nape of John's neck, adding little flicks of his tongue, as he stood back far enough to unbutton and remove the purple silk shirt.

_John thinks we cannot be seen with this room in darkness and the light external, but the street lights provide just enough illumination. If her eyesight is good, she will see us. The light will catch our skin. Pale, we will be little more than shapes, but still obviously bodies framed in the window._

Sherlock felt the rush of pleasure at the thought gather in his groin. He grew harder at his next thought: _I will show her that John is… **claimed**._

Sherlock's arms circled John again, and he unbuttoned John's shirt. John made no protest, instead moving to help Sherlock remove his shirt and vest. Then, Sherlock’s naked front to John’s naked back, Sherlock let his hands roam: over John's stomach and ribs, fingers dipping into his navel, then up, circling his nipples. Rubbing them. Pinching them, soft, then hard, then soft again. John's breath quickened and he pushed his hips back against Sherlock's groin. Sherlock never grew tired of the way John's body responded to his touch. And, of course, vice versa. John's backside pushing against his cock, wriggling a little, was an excellent reward.

Sherlock glanced into the street.

She was watching.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock kissed John's neck again. His left hand smoothed up John's chest a little, and then he traced his fingers over John's tattoo. The double lock of the padlock forming its stylised S, the keyhole a match in size and shape for the key, a stylised J, on Sherlock's own chest. John moaned softly at the touch and arched his back a little.

_He loves this. He loves me. Can you see, down there? I am everything he needs now. He doesn't need the likes of you any more, as I am reminding him._

"Close your eyes," murmured Sherlock and John, already heavy-lidded, obeyed.

When Sherlock undid John's jeans and pulled both jeans and pants down to John's thighs, John only breathed 'yes'. He was hard, his skin hot, the crown of his prick damp already.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the thick shaft and pulled slowly. Rewarded with a stuttering of John’s breath, he did it again, and again. He rubbed his thumb over the slit once, twice, then smeared the stickiness gathered there up and down the length of John’s cock.

Sherlock’s left hand stroked across John’s chest, too. Rolling the hard nib of John’s nipple between his fingers, pinching it a little, then soothing it with a soft caress. From time to time Sherlock flattened his palm over the pebbled aureole and rubbed his fingers instead over the padlock tattoo. He knew he couldn’t really feel the ridges of ink under the skin, and yet his fingertips felt aware of it – the brand John had chosen to carry, his regard for Sherlock inscribed over his heart. Sherlock knew it was even more fanciful to imagine he could feel that image throbbing with John’s heartbeat, but he imagined it nonetheless.

Sometimes he dipped his hand down to roll, to fondle, John’s balls, that grew slowly heavier and tighter, before returning to the steady rhythm of strokes on his cock, over the head, the motion growing slicker each pass. The faint, moist sound of the stickiness between Sherlock’s hand and John’s prick should have seemed ridiculous, but Sherlock loved that sound: wet and obscene and glorious.

 _Mine now._ Sherlock glanced down at the street from time to time, between the soft kisses, the harder, sucking ones, against John’s neck. _See. Mine._

John began a kind of gruff hum, and for a while that was all the sound he made – _hnnn, hnnnmmff, nnghff_ – rhythmically, interspersed with the _ah_ and _uhf_ of a sudden gasp of breath. John’s eyes were closed and he leaned back, letting Sherlock’s hands do whatever he wanted, heedless of his mostly naked, openly erotic exposure at the window, on display to anyone with good eyes who stood below and looked up at them.

And then Sherlock noticed that John’s eyes were not completely closed.

He noticed, as he stroked and rubbed, that John’s eyes were not even his usual unfocused sex-haze, but instead he looked down, through his pleasure, at the place where their client stood near the end of the street, by a wall, a shadow among deeper shadows in the street.

Watching them.

_Oh. Oh, **John**. Full of surprises. I still get you wrong, sometimes. Not annoyed that you were her second choice. Annoyed that she flirted with me at all. You hide your possessiveness quite poorly but I forgot all the same. _

He remembered John’s reaction to Janine, feigning concern for her feelings but mostly unhappy that Sherlock had a woman in his life. Even resentful of Billy, as though Billy could ever be a serious rival.

Sherlock was so hard in his trousers it was getting painful.

_Yes, John. Yes. I’m yours, too. Let’s show her._

Sherlock switched hands, his left scooping under John’s balls to play gently then move up, taking over the stroke, the rhythm increasing, as his right rubbed over John’s belly and up his chest, pinching first one nipple then the other then rising to wrap around the side of John’s throat and jaw, the tips of his fingers burrowing into John’s hairline.

“God, yes, John,” he murmured into John’s ear, voice deep and rumbling-dark, a trick that he knew brought John close to the edge every time, “Fuck yes,” because the sound of Sherlock talking filthy in that voice always took him another notch closer, though to be fair it also kicked Sherlock’s own heartrate up and made his own breathing ragged, “Oh John, God yes, your cock in my hand, fuck yes, look at you. Look at your cock…”

John’s gaze dropped down, to look as commanded, and the _hum-keen-grunt_ of him intensified and his hips moved (grinding back against Sherlock’s trapped, so-hard erection, forward into the slick, tight circle of his fingers) faster and faster and then, with a short, sharp cry, John’s cock swelled again and he came in thick pulses, stripes of come on his stomach, on Sherlock’s hand, on the glass…

John relaxed against Sherlock’s chest, panting, a smug smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and crinkling the edges of his eyes. Not that nice smile he gave to other people, Sherlock noted, but instead that one that he himself adored. The _bit not good_ smile, full of bite and satisfaction.

Then John was turning in his arms, was pulling Sherlock around to face him, to kiss him with sloppy, fierce tenderness, arms folding him close before his hands dropped to knead at Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s hands were on John’s bare arse too, pulling him close, so he could grind his clothed erection against John’s sticky, softening prick.

And then John was pushing Sherlock against the window and plastering himself against Sherlock’s chest and belly, the sloppy kiss growing more fierce, less tender, and Sherlock wondered that it was possible to get even harder; to have so much blood flow rushing away from his brain and still be conscious.

Before he could formulate much more idea than _God, yes, John, suck me_ , John was smearing hot, open, lapping kisses down Sherlock’s throat and chest, down his stomach. Sherlock’s trousers and pants were tugged down to his ankles even as John’s mouth bit at the bare skin above his pubic thatch, and then beside the crease of each thigh, and then slid over Sherlock’s wet, aching cock.

Sherlock’s was pushed hard against the window, his back and his bare backside cool against the glass. Then John’s hands wriggled over his arse, insinuating themselves between skin and glass, to knead and hold and tug, fingers pressed hard into firm flesh, controlling how far and how much Sherlock could move.

That was all right, though, that was _fucking amazing_ , in fact, because John delivered all the motion and friction Sherlock needed. Sherlock spread his arms and pressed his palms to the window. He cheerfully, wantonly spreadeagled on the pane as he surrendered to John’s purposeful domination. John’s head bobbing, his mouth sucking, a repeat of those wonderful gruff-hum sounds, pitched higher, more wetly, with his mouth now full of Sherlock’s slick-sticky erection.

Sherlock couldn’t see if she was still there, that woman in the street, and half hoped she wasn’t.

_Do you see us? Now go away. We. Are. Claimmm-aah…_

He never quite finished the thought because that was when John swallowed him down deep and worked his fingers into Sherlock’s cleft to rub against his anus, and John’s hum became more of a growl, reverberating in his throat and all through Sherlock’s cock and balls, even his arse, all the way up his spine, and then John sucked and growled and sucked and Sherlock arched, long, pale body pressed hard to the window, and came with a long shout.

John sucked on Sherlock until Sherlock practically squeaked with the oversensitivity of it, then pulled off slowly. Sherlock’s knees gave out and he slithered to the floor, a pool of boneless, graceless, grinning contentment. John, already kneeling on the carpet, lurched forward to press his forehead to Sherlock’s cheekbone, then tilted further to lie sprawled against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock wound his arms around John’s shoulders, his breath coming in shallow, delighted gasps.

It took a few moments for them both to recover sufficiently for speech.

“We going to take her on?” John asked, head cradled on Sherlock’s shoulder. He was watching the pulse in Sherlock’s neck slowly recede to a more normal rate, with a sense of accomplishment.

“She’s not a client,” Sherlock said, and rubbed his cheek against John’s hair, “She never intended to be one. She’s a fan of the blog. She wanted to see us in the flesh.”

There was a silence, of two men holding their breath, and then the rush of them spluttering into laughter, giggling like the naughtiest of boys.

Then John’s laughter faded. “Fuck. We’ve probably just inadvertently made a sex tape.”

“Not with that phone,” asserted Sherlock, “Old model. Poor light. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“You’re going to text her a message with a virus in it to wipe the video memory, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

John just giggled again and Sherlock, laughing warmly, wrapped his arms around John and tugged him close. He decided not to lecture John on either his possessiveness or unexpected manner of staking his claim. To mention it might preclude a repeat.

John stretched a little in his arms and nibbled lightly at Sherlock’s earlobe.

“Possessive,” John accused fondly.

“A little,” Sherlock admitted, mildly surprised that John, in the midst of his own possessiveness, had noticed.

John took Sherlock’s hand and pressed it over the padlock tattoo over his heart. “There’s only you now, and for the rest of my life,” he said.

Sherlock flexed his hand over the muscle, then took John’s hand and placed it over the key tattooed over his own heart. “There was only ever you, John.”

Naked but for clothes tangled around their ankles, tacky with drying ejaculate , exhausted and content, John and Sherlock, limned by streetlight, kissed in the shadows on the floor of their flat where nobody else could see.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written from a prompt by AtlinMerrick:
> 
> "I like the idea of at one of the windows of the sitting room—this could be at night and hidden from the street…or not…and if not, which of them is being the exhibitionist just then? The sex act would seem to be one of 'em bringing the other off from behind."
> 
> So any thanks you may have, you can dedicate to her.
> 
> Also... I seem to have a new series on my hands. Just what I needed. :)


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